Origin Unknown
by 1Yui
Summary: A mother's pain, a father's sacrifice, a few things in between... with some twists...explores a theory of why the artist nin looks like the Royal Emo.
1. 01 t0 05

_A mother's pain, a father's sacrifice...a few things in between..._

* * *

**Origin Unknown**

by Yui

(first published 2012.06.14, now broken down into 5 pages.)

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**1**

It was the start of a difficult year for her, the beginning of the end. She just wanted a normal life, as normal as any belonging to a shinobi family would allow. But it was not meant to be. She was, after all, a woman hailing from a respected clan. She had a responsibility toward her family to keep a brave and cheerful front no matter the circumstances.

No one needed to know that her heart weighed a ton. Her husband, who she loved dearly, had changed before her eyes. His temperament worsened with each passing month and she didn't fully understand why.

Everyday it seemed like she was walking on a tightrope, careful not to tilt even just a little on either side lest she lose her balance and fall. She dreaded waking up in the morning for fear of what's to come.

She kept her eyes open for as long as possible every night and just waited till she heard the first cock crow. She would then immediately get up and proceed to her routine - make breakfast, bathe and feed her 3-year old son, clean the house, be as quiet as possible. She made sure she knew where everything was so that when her husband asked for anything, she would have it at the ready.

She kept her son out of the way and taught him lessons advanced for his age so that when his father checked, the boy would be prepared and spared punishment because of perceived ignorance.

When did it start? When did he change? When did she begin fearing her own existence? She wasn't even sure anymore. But she was determined to strive on for her son's sake, and even for her husband's. Because even if she felt he had become a stranger to her, she loved him still.

**2**

It was one of those days when she was feeling particularly oppressed that the young man came into her life. Her husband was in a bad mood that morning having had a troublesome night at work. He yelled at her for not being quick enough to refill his teacup. _He has such heavy responsibilities, everyone is relying on him, it can't be helped_, she justified for him as she walked wearily to the marketplace.

"Why hello there," the fish vendor greeted. "Oy Goro, look who's here," she yelled to her husband who was behind the stall curtains. "You know how he likes to look at you," she said to her. "He says you're very beautiful. And you are, indeed you are. I let him get his eyeful as long as he doesn't go gallivanting with some witless female in one of those sleazy bars, you know?"

She blushed at the woman's prattle. She felt quite uncomfortable being ogled in a weird way by an old man. And yet she felt she had to project a smile as if it didn't bother her. She made her purchase and discreetly walked away.

It didn't help that she wasn't feeling particularly beautiful at the moment though she had been told many times by others that she was. Her dark almond eyes were easily her best features that accented her smooth fair skin. Men would often do a double-take as she walked by leaving a view of her long dark hair flowing behind her. It was of little effort on her part to be such a beauty at 26 and yet she was conscious of being presentable for her husband's sake, not that he noticed her in such a manner anymore.

Next stop was the fruit vendor's stall. She strictly had to keep to budget but she wanted to buy some fruit for her son at least. That's when she saw him; a scraggly and pale young man with longish dark hair tied recklessly in a pony tail. His clothes looked clean enough but his shirt and trousers were so rumpled they looked like they had never known the touch of an iron. He was holding up a piece of paper to the fruit vendor and had a pleading look on his face.

"What would I do with that?" the vendor asked irritably.

"If you don't like it, I can draw you another one," the young man said softly. "Just one apple in exchange...please?" He said the last with a hint of desperation.

**3**

Before she knew it, she was reaching for her wallet. "One apple please," she said to the vendor who gladly obliged.

"Here," she said handing the apple to the young man. He looked her in the eye, his expression bordering between confusion, anxiety or anger, she wasn't quite sure. In either case, he didn't extend his hand to receive the apple. He just bowed awkwardly and walked away.

"Wait," she called but he increased his pace crisscrossing his way between other pedestrians along the busy street.

"So rude," remarked the fruit vendor. "If you ask me, you shouldn't have bothered. Imagine the gall to offer me a drawing instead of cash."

"He must have been hungry," she said sympathetically then looked back over her shoulder to check if he was still within sight. He wasn't.

"Oh don't worry yourself with the likes of him. Those beggars will always try to con you out of whatever they can get for free."

Why didn't he take the apple then, she wanted to ask but she kept it to herself. She bought another apple and some oranges before proceeding to her next stop, the vegetable vendor.

She managed to complete her shopping list within an hour quite in a hurry to go home in order to relieve the baby-sitter and then prepare lunch. The weather was particularly gloomy that day. Dark gray clouds signaled rain at any minute. She felt in her bag for her folding umbrella just to be ready.

Sure enough, a few drops of rain began to trickle down soon after. It was just a drizzle, not too heavy, but she hastened her pace along the street anyway. A few umbrella-deprived pedestrians took shelter under the stall canopies.

And then she spotted him again. He was in an exposed corner scrambling to gather pieces of paper that were laid out on a brown straw mat. A sign beside him read "Art for Sale."

She resisted the urge to approach but something about how he was desperately trying to save his artwork from the rain made her come forward and hold out her umbrella on top of his head.

**4**

"Aaah! Aaah!" He panicked as he looked frantically at his art pieces. She didn't understand what he was griping about until she realized the edge of her umbrella was causing more water to fall heavily onto his artwork.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she gasped. She absent-mindedly set the umbrella aside and proceeded to pick up the pieces of paper herself. She gathered as much as she could before handing them over to the soggy young man who took them with a tinge of annoyance. She was, she realized, getting soggy too so she picked up her umbrella and raised it over herself. The drizzle had turned into an actual downpour.

"You're not a stalker, are you?" the man asked with suspicion.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're the woman from back there."

"Well, yes. But I'm not stalking you. I just thought you needed help."

"Right," he said. "Of course," he added wistfully, realizing the absurdity of his accusation. He looked down on the sheets in his hand and crumpled them together to her dismay.

"Why did you do that?" She asked feeling sorry for her wasted effort.

"They're all ruined now anyway," he shrugged as he raised the crumpled sheets that resembled a twisted roll good enough to be used as a fly swatter. He bent down to pick up his backpack that looked equally rugged as he was. He folded the wet mat and clipped it under his arm. He nodded to her once then walked away. She watched him as he very casually tossed the fly swatter into a trash bin that was nearby.

"Wait," she said. He did not stop. "Wait," she called louder.

He turned to her with a questioning look. She walked briskly toward him while rummaging in her shopping bag. "Here," she said holding up an apple to him.

"Thanks but –"

"Look, I know all about male pride, believe me I know," she said. "But this is nothing. It's just an apple. If you don't want to take a favor then just consider it a loan. I don't think we'll see each other again after this so just give the fruit vendor the payment when you have it and ask her to give it to me, okay?"

**5**

He was taken aback by her words. He'd been spoken roughly to before but not like that. No one ever bothered to consider his pride and he was sure he'd lost it a long time ago. Attempting to trade his drawings for food was pathetic and he knew he couldn't sink any lower. Then here was someone who was offering an apple on loan. Either she was being condescending or just plain naïve for showing him a bit of…what was it? _Respect?_

He stared at the apple a while then reached for it hesitantly. He glanced upward at her before dropping his gaze back on the fruit in his hand. She looked serious to him, no hint of condescension, must be naïve then, he decided. "I'm not sure when I can give the vendor the payment," he said.

She rolled her eyes quite incredulous at his stubbornness. She watched as he opened his backpack while struggling to keep his mat under his arm. Water was dripping from the tip of his nose and his wet shirt clung to his body. He took out a small blank parchment and handed it to her motioning for her to take it to keep it from getting wet. She held it under her umbrella and wondered what he was up to.

He rummaged inside his bag again and took out a bottle of ink and a brush. She then understood what he was planning to do but was careful not to appear presumptuous. The rain had stopped and she watched as he wiped his face with his hand before bending over to dip his brush into the ink bottle that he had uncapped on the ground. He then tried his best to dry his left hand by wiping them on the inside of his bag before taking the blank parchment from her.

"Is there a picture you like? I'll draw anything," he said.

"It's not necessary," she replied having her answer ready early on.

"Please," he begged almost too desperately.

She sighed. She knew she would be the one to give in sooner or later. Sooner rather than later since she really had to be on her way. "Fine, a butterfly."

**Continued next page**


	2. 06 to 10

**6**

She got home an hour late than normal. She apologized profusely to the baby-sitter while offering to pay for the extra service. The sitter, who could use the extra cash, was more than glad for the delay.

"Mama, butterfly!" her son blurted out. She turned to him, noting that he had taken hold of the artist's drawing that she had tossed hurriedly on the kitchen table together with her groceries. It got a little creased at the edges but the parchment was thick enough to withstand some pressure.

The butterfly was daintily drawn in the middle of the sheet. Its wings spread out sideways with swirling fluid strokes. The design on its wings was intricately lined with the precision and detail of someone who seemed to have studied butterflies all his life. At the bottom left corner, the artist had added a poppy flower with its petals in full bloom as if inviting the flying creature into its bosom. The butterfly's body was slightly bent over getting ready to descend on its welcoming host. It was indeed a beautiful picture.

"That's right," she said to her son. "It's a butterfly. Do you like it?"

The child nodded cheerfully. "It's pretty. Where did you get it?"

"From the market."

"May I keep it?"

"Of course, dear. If you like."

"Yey!"

She smiled as the boy ran out of the living room, drawing in hand. He had always been her source of joy, and lately, the only source.

She went back to the kitchen to prepare lunch. As she cleaned the fish by the sink, her thoughts strayed to the rugged artist at the market. She'd never seen him before, must be from out of town. _He'll have an apple for lunch_, she mused. _Just an apple_. She cleared the thought from her mind and focused on her task. After lunch, she would carry out her usual routine to clean the house, teach her son, do the laundry then prepare dinner before her husband came home. She gave a little sigh.

She used to be a shinobi, and a good one by her own estimation. But she had to give it up in exchange for a family. Right then she applied a formula that always made her feel better. She thought of her son and how wonderfully he was turning out to be. She attributed this to the careful attention she had given him since he was born, an achievement that would have been impossible had she chosen to pursue a career. She smiled at her self-gratification. This was her life now-a loving wife and mother. She would do it faithfully, if not happily then dutifully.

**7**

He leaned back against the corner post where he took shelter under the eaves of a yakiniku shop along the road. He ran for it when a fresh downpour started again that morning. What rotten luck to be stranded at a shop that served barbecue of all things.

His belly rumbled as the scent of sweet meat from the shop's window came wafting under his nose. It was nearing lunch time anyway so he took out the apple from his bag and munched greedily on it. It was gone in a minute leaving only the thinnest of cores. He was sorry he ate it too fast. Chewing for a little while longer would at least dull his olfactory sense from smelling barbecue while the rain poured heavily before him. Another waft of tenderly roasting beef sent him running through the rush of wind and rain. He figured he'd rather get wet than bear that torturous aroma for one second longer.

The rain turned into a drizzle and finally the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. His run turned to a jog slowing further to a walk. He had reached the end of a few blocks at his pace by the time the sky cleared.

What a day and it was only half over. Some days were slightly better than this one. Some towns were more welcoming to a wandering artist offering his craft. But it was only his first day in Konoha. He was determined to sell a few of his work before he left.

Unfortunately, the ones he had labored on for the day were all ruined by the weather. He would have to make a new set and sell at least one before the day was through or he'd end up without supper. He wrung out excess water from the bottom of his shirt and then headed to the edge of a forest just beside town where he set camp for the duration of his stay.

**8**

Inside his makeshift tent, which was actually just a large tattered cloth tied with string and attached from the corners to the nearest branches, the young man took out a bundle of rolled up parchment from a plastic bag and started to cut a few sheets in half with a knife. He decided he would draw smaller pictures. He had to save his parchment until he had enough to buy another ream. Besides, he figured people might be more willing to buy them for a lesser price.

He started work immediately, ignoring the painful rumbling from the pit of his stomach. A starving artist wasn't such an odd thing. By all practical standards, art was not the best way to make a living. But he wasn't meant to be just an ordinary artist or so his parents deemed upon his birth. Fate would have been less cruel if they didn't raise their hopes so high.

He came from an ancient line of artist nins, a proud lineage that produced talented warriors throughout the centuries. One ancestor could carve out giant sculptures out of stone in one single motion then made it come to life to exert its mass destructive power on the enemy.

Another ancestor could paralyze an army with a genjutsu that involved trapping the senses in a kaleidoscope of patterned colors. Another one had the ability to create glass by gathering sand and water then forging them in the air. The glass would then come alive as human-shaped fighters. As characteristic of glass, they would easily shatter with one forceful blow but the resulting sharp fragments could do such painful damage to one's system that the aggressor would wish too late that the creation was left alone whole.

Such were the strength and notoriety of the artistic shinobi clan of old. But as history would have it, the members would eventually dwindle in number through the centuries because of wars and conspiracies and because propagation just wasn't on top of their priorities. It didn't help that the artistic jutsu gene was only passed down through the males. The descendants were eventually scattered throughout the shinobi world and the clan's once pure blood had been diluted to produce descendants of lesser abilities than their forebears.

**9**

He was supposed to be the hope of the ancient clan. His parents were both of pure blood ancestry, the last, as far as they knew. And he was their offspring from a difficult childbirth. All their hardships had to account for something. They were sure the boy would be the one to restore the artist nin clan's honor and prestige.

But he turned out to be a dud. For all the shinobi training that they invested in him, he never manifested any ability for ninjutsu. It took tremendous effort on their part to finally admit that their son's creations would amount to nothing more than just dainty art on paper. He was, as he would be reminded all his life, a disappointment to his family and his ancestry.

It would be unfair to say that he was thoroughly neglected by his parents. They fed him and clothed him as was their obligation. But they pretty much lost interest in anything he did after he failed ninja academy for the fifth time at the age of eleven. On top of that, he was far too gentle to be a warrior. He tried his best to compensate for his incompetence. He was polite and patient. He would readily do any chore they asked of him. He was helpful and hardly asked for anything. But nothing he did elicited approval.

By fifteen years old he asked his parents if he was a burden. They didn't answer. He wanted them to lie, to tell him he was their son and they loved him even if he was just an ordinary artist, but they opted for the truth.

He left home the same year. He did not run away. He told them he was going and they let him. They gave him some money and bade him farewell. He worked at odd jobs from town to town while drawing pictures for a fee at the side.

By the time he turned twenty, he went back home only to learn that his parents died on a mission a year prior. He never went back to that village again. He'd been a wandering artist for four years since. He stuck to his profession partly because he truly loved art and partly to pay homage to his parents, the last of the pure-blooded artist nin clan.

**10**

"What?" She asked the fruit vendor in surprise when she came again two days later.

"That man, the beggar. He asked me to give this to you this morning," came the reply as the vendor held out a coin to her. "For the apple he said. So you managed to give it to him after all. I really admire your..." The woman went on but she was no longer listening. She was irritated for some reason. Was it really so hard for him to accept a gesture of kindness from someone? She thanked the vendor and left after she made her usual purchase.

As she walked along the street, she spotted him at the old place by the corner. He was hunched down with arms crossed looking rather cold. He would occasionally rearrange the sheets on the straw mat putting one drawing over the other, probably deciding the one on top would catch someone's eye better. But there didn't seem to be any takers.

He looked paler than the last time, from hunger she supposed. The idea irritated her more. He could've just bought another apple instead of displaying false bravado. _Ugh! Men and their machismo!_

She could have just ignored him then but when she was already a few steps away, she turned back around and started walking toward him. She stood in front and waited until he looked up at her. When he recognized who she was he pointed at the direction of the fruit stall. "I gave - "

"Yes, she gave it to me," she interjected not very gently.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly then looked blankly down again.

"You didn't have to, you know," she said. "You already gave me a drawing as payment, remember?" She didn't understand why she was so upset. It wasn't like her to display annoyance. She was a proper lady, the wife of a highly esteemed man of society.

"The drawing was for your kindness," he said simply.

"You return kindness for kindness," she said impatiently.

He looked up at her confused. "You - ," he started. "You didn't like the drawing?"

"No. I mean yes, I did. I just meant…you didn't have to…," she was at a loss for words. And what was she doing arguing senselessly with this stranger? She sighed in resignation. "How much for this picture?"

**Continued next page**


	3. 11 to 15

**11**

First it was a rose. The next day, two Lories on a branch. The next it was a peddler carrying baskets hanging from a bamboo pole. For three consecutive days, she bought drawings from him. For three days, her son cheerfully ogled each new artwork she brought home.

On the fourth day, he gave her one for free, an abstract but with a sort of intricate floral pattern. She insisted on paying for it but he said his sale had gone up since she started buying from him. It was another token of gratitude. No wonder he was a pauper, she thought. He readily gave things away.

She wondered too if the young man thought she'd become some kind of art connoisseur. In truth, she had somehow just taken it to task to make sure he had something to buy food with. Not that she thought the drawings weren't beautiful, she just understood how most people would find it impractical to spend money for them. For three days she wanted to suggest to him to get a real job but of course, she couldn't. He was still just a stranger.

Yet despite the appearance of a pale and starving artist, there was some quiet dignity oozing from his person. And the fact that he could go anywhere he pleased, she almost envied him the freedom.

"What are these?" her husband asked sternly when he entered the kitchen. He entered their son's room soon after he arrived home and found the child inspecting the drawings on the floor. He sequestered the sheets and just then dropped them forcefully on the table.

She was suddenly terrified. Before then, she didn't think she was doing anything wrong but the sudden inquiry made her feel guilty for some reason.

"Our son, he- he likes them," she stammered.

"Where did they come from?"

"From the market."

"You spend money on worthless things like these?"

She wanted to tell him she used her personal savings from when she was still a shinobi but she didn't have the courage to argue. Instead she bowed her head and apologized.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. You're right. I'm sorry."

Passivity and submissiveness served as a convenient way out of an argument she knew she had no way of winning, though it choked her like the vines of a wild thorny rose bush coiled around her neck.

Her husband eyed her with contempt before walking out of the kitchen. "Don't poison my son's mind with girly things like those," he said with his back to her.

She kept her head bowed until he disappeared. She then gathered the strewn sheets and gazed at the one in front for a moment. It was the butterfly descending on the eager poppy.

The artist's face flashed across her mind. _You return kindness for kindness_, she berated him. _This_, she realized, _this was his kindness_.

**12**

"This looks nice, I think I'll have this one," a short chubby woman said after inspecting the array of ink paintings before her. She reached for two coins in her wallet and handed it to him.

"Thank you very much," he said pleasantly.

He looked on as the woman ambled away with her purchase but his mind was somewhere else. She hadn't come for a few days now. His eyes strayed across the street from his corner, half-expecting she would emerge from the crowd at any time.

After a while, he heaved a sigh. He knew his luck would run out sooner or later, like it always did. The number of customers had dwindled in the last few days. The last one had been the only one since that morning and it was way past noon already. It was for him a signal to move on to the next town.

Still, he was glad he decided to venture into this village. It started roughly for him but by the end, he was able to save enough to buy a new ream of parchment, an ink block and enough money to feed himself for at least a couple of days. Cutting his parchment into small pieces proved to be a good idea. It was all thanks to that nameless lady who showed him a bit of generosity. Yes, this town wasn't so bad. He might come back here again someday should chance permit.

As he was thinking on these things, there she suddenly was in the middle of the street, emerging through the crowd like he hoped she would earlier. She held a shopping bag as she strode briskly nearer. He was pleasantly surprised to see her there so late. When she reached the point directly in front of him, she walked straight past without acknowledgement. He looked on behind her.

He forced a smile as he nodded his head to inspect his ware. She already bought three pictures from him after all, he thought. He chided himself for feeling disappointed. He had grown accustomed to being ignored. Why should she treat him any different?

He counted the coins he had accumulated in the last few days and decided to call it a day. The clouds were getting dark again; he didn't want to risk a repeat of the first day. He gathered the unsold artwork, inserted them in a folded cardboard then into a plastic bag and into his backpack. Then he folded his straw mat and got ready to be on his way.

**13**

She saw him, of course. Through her peripheral vision, she saw him looking at her then following her with his gaze as she passed him. But she could no longer buy anything from him, not after the other day. She could afford to, she could still use her own money after all. She could hide the pictures from her husband and he would never know.

But why would she do such a thing? Why should she have to hide anything? Her innocent gesture had been tainted by her husband's reprimand. He scolded her for spending money unwisely and for _poisoning_ her son's mind. But at the time, when he asked about those pictures, she thought she was being accused of something else. And the more she thought about it, the guiltier she felt. She loved her husband, she said to herself numerous times since. She loved him, even though he yelled at her again that morning for forgetting to buy an item that sent her to this emergency trip back to the market.

She felt bad for the young man. It wasn't his fault. And they were really nice pictures. But she had to keep her priorities straight. He was just a stranger. She had shown him enough kindness. He already had other customers. He could afford an apple on his own. She remembered his face the first time she held out an apple to him by the fruit vendor's stall. His expression and his sudden retreat stirred something in her. And later when he spoke to her, his gentle voice, even as he mistook her for a stalker. And later still, his expression was soft and friendly yet unassuming. And it seemed that every time she bought a drawing, she was completely herself again like way back when she was a young chuunin eager to experience the world.

"Hey, miss," a voice from behind called jolting her out of confusing thoughts.

His smiling face greeted her when she turned around. "I just wanted to give you this," he said as he held out a by then familiar item. It was a picture of a Camellia flower. "I was hoping I'd see you again."

Her heart skipped a beat at those words.

"It's my last day in Konoha," he said. "I thought I'd thank you before I left."

_Oh_, her mind said, feelings of guilt once again creeping in. At once, she reached for her purse but he stopped her. "No please. It's a gift. I learned somewhere that the Camellia is a symbol of gratitude and…I'm really grateful. Here." He held out the paper again.

She took it slowly. Before she could say anything, he had bowed and left. It was the third drawing he had given her for free. It cancelled out the three that she bought from him. _Kindness for kindness._

**14**

What was she doing? She didn't know what came over her. She just found herself running across the marketplace, shopping bag in hand, toward the direction he took after he bowed and walked away. It was his last day here. But why was she running after him? After that day, no more pictures. She would like a picture of a deer running happily across the meadow. _That's it._ She'd happily pay for such a picture. She would happily pay to be that deer…running…happily…across anywhere! Anywhere but here.

And then she spotted him as the crowd thinned near the edge of town. He was walking in a slow pace. He had his mat under his arm, his backpack behind him and his right hand in his trouser pocket. His head was slightly bowed, his attention solely focused on the ground he was treading on. He turned to the left to an alley which she knew was the way toward the woods.

She could have just called to him to stop but she didn't. She just tailed him along the way. And then there she was, by a grassy knoll at the edge of the forest where she used to practice with kunais and shurikens as a child. And there she saw a large tattered cloth tied at the corners and stretched out to function as a makeshift shelter. _He stayed out here all this time._ And then she watched him struggle to untie one of the knots from a branch to free his blanket. And then he stopped and slowly turned his head toward her, realizing for the first time that he wasn't alone.

He had the same expression as the time she attempted to give him the apple at the fruit vendor's. He slowly released his hold on the rope and rubbed his hands against his sides while looking sideways as if trying to figure out what to do next. He walked toward her with a little swagger in his stride much like how one would carefully approach a stray cat.

She took note of his reaction and realized she had been a little too stealthy for him, a spillover from her shinobi days no doubt. She was embarrassed then. _He must really think I'm a stalker._

But then he smiled, even if it looked awkward, he still smiled. Her stalker-conscious self felt a bit better.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked to her surprise.

"No!" was her quick reply. "I – I just…" Why was she there? Did she really want a drawing? "I wanted to thank you for…for this." She held out her Camellia art. It wasn't it at all and she knew it. Before she could stop herself, the tears had already fallen. "A deer", she said between sobs. "I want a deer."

**15**

He invited her over to sit under his humble shelter. She had never felt so vulnerable in her life. She just kept on sobbing as she sat there, furiously trying to wipe away her tears at the same time. He didn't say anything. He didn't even ask what was wrong. He just sat beside her and waited until she calmed down.

And then it was quiet. She was exhausted and she felt ashamed for her outburst. But she had no way to fight all her repressed emotions from spilling over in one go. There was no one to stop her. There was only this man, this stranger who let her cry away like a child. No one else was around, no one who expected so much of her, a proper lady of a respected clan. She was just any other woman. That's all she ever wanted to be.

"I think…" he began after a while of silence. "I heard there's plenty of deer in Nara forest." He misunderstood her meaning, as to be expected. "But I don't know where that is. I don't think this is it though. I've been here for two weeks; I haven't seen a deer once."

She smiled weakly at his misperception. And then he looked at her with sympathetic eyes. "You'll be fine," he said gently and smiled back. She felt another wave of tears about to go off but she fought to prevent it. She nodded. "I'll be fine."

They sat together in silence again until she finally explained about the deer. He readily took out a parchment from his pack, a larger one this time, and then masterfully drew her request.

A young deer, prancing along a meadow. The grass, swaying with the wind. A forest, far behind for a background with a line of trees below a sparsely cloudy sky.

She watched him as he worked. He was actually handsome, now that she had seen him up close. His nose was not too pointed as she previously thought. His lashes were long and dark. And his lips were full, quite attractive. But he was too pale for a man, and too skinny.

She gazed at him as he contemplated on the next stroke. She never thought she would get to enjoy company anymore like she did at that moment and they didn't even speak. She had felt so alone for so long.

He got nervous when she reached for his hand. His grip on the brush stiffened at the feel of her touch. He expected her to say something like _you're doing it wrong! Throw that away and do it again!_ His parents always said so. His teachers at the academy always had a punishment ready. He glanced up at her and saw none of what he feared.

She reached for the parchment and gently laid it aside. She touched his cheek and turned his face ever so gently until their eyes connected. He let go of his brush and reached out to stroke her hair. And the world faded behind them.

**Continued next page**


	4. 16 to 20

**16**

A sharp slap across the cheek welcomed her upon her return. She hurried. She ran as fast as she could. The sun had already set two hours before she even realized she shouldn't be where she was.

Her son was crying softly by the corner of the living room when she entered. Her husband's welcoming strike was as sharp as his glare.

"I'm sorry. I - " she thought of an excuse on the way but it seemed so absurd now that she was about to say it. Yet she had no other alternative. "I couldn't find the type of tofu that you like. The ones available were not firm enough. I searched all over. I didn't even realize I had strayed out so far. I'm sorry."

She bowed and bowed. Then she rushed to her son by the corner and hugged him. She stroked his head and shushed him gently. "I'm sorry son, mama's here."

She could feel the thickness in the atmosphere as her husband's shadow hovered over her. She had her back to him. She hugged her son more tightly. And then he was no longer there. There was only the soft murmuring of her son's feeble cries. Even her little child had learned the art of suppression very early. _What have I done?_, she thought as she rubbed the boy's back gently to comfort him.

It took a few hours before she gained the courage to enter their bedroom. Her husband was lying on his side but she knew he was not asleep. She took light steps over to the other side of the futon and sat down as carefully as she could muster. She then lay down sideways facing the other way.

She could still feel the sting of his strike on her left cheek. She didn't mind. She deserved it. He had never hit her before tonight. She deserved it, she told herself.

She kept her eyes open. She knew that if she closed them, she'd see _him_, his gentle caress, his passionate embrace, the warmth of his lips…_No!_ _What have I done? _She struggled_. But I needed it so badly, _she finally admitted. _To be hugged, to be kissed… I'll never see him again. I can forget about it after this. No one will know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry._

Her tears rolled off her cheek where she lay. She clasped her hands tightly to keep from shaking. She was sorry and yet she was not. It was that thought that bothered her most. She had a feeling she would pay dearly for her un-confessed sin one way or another.

**17**

The sensation wasn't new to her. She experienced it before, the headaches, nausea, lower backaches. It's been two weeks since _that day. No, please. It can't be. Not this._

There was a way out. She could try and get her husband to sleep with her. It's only been two weeks. He wouldn't be able to tell. But he had not spoken to her since that night. Wouldn't she look more suspicious if she attempted to seduce him now? What if the baby turned out looking like _him_? How would she explain that? The child would not only get shunned, _he'd get killed. _She thought and thought and thought…

"Mama, you okay?" her son called as he stood by the entrance of the bathroom.

"I'm fine, son. Go back to bed, it's still early."

She hurriedly washed her face and proceeded to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She had to be careful not to let any of the symptoms escape from her while her husband was around. It should be easy. He hardly looked at her.

The day went by and was over before she knew it. The days seemed to pass by more quickly than before. She had been trying to think of a solution to her dilemma and the more she thought the faster the hours went without results.

There was a knock on the door two weeks later. Her eyes grew wide to find_ him_ standing out front.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I had to make sure you were okay...and you forgot this." He held out a rolled-up parchment she knew contained the deer painting she had requested that fateful day.

"How did you find me?"

"I asked around. You're not that hard to find. You're easy to describe."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know. I'm sorry, I didn't know you were married."

She was stunned by the remark. And she realized it was she that should be apologizing.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I was just worried. I'll leave." He turned around and walked away.

"Wait," she called.

"I didn't say anything to anyone," he assured without looking back. "When I asked about you, I just said you dropped something at the market and I couldn't catch up."

"No, that's not it," she said. "I need your help."

**18**

She was bowing before her husband that same night.

"I want to work again as a shinobi. I want to help with the household expenses. Please let me go on training again."

Her husband was quiet. He was not oblivious to her discomfort. And he was aware that she had potential as a chuunin before she married him. And yet he had grown accustomed to exercising his authority over her. He glanced over her bowing form. Her hair hung loosely from her head and touched the floor. He knew she was no longer happy. And he was not at all pleased with what his relationship with her had become.

"Perhaps, it's for the best," he said finally. "It might remind you of what being responsible is all about."

She nodded her head in her current position trying her hardest to suppress her relief.

They agreed to let her husband's parents take charge of their son's care until she returned. She insisted she needed at least ten months of self-imposed training by herself in order to regain her shinobi instincts.

She kissed her son goodbye a week later and set off to an unknown place outside of Konoha.

In an obscure hill just outside the hidden village, she met with him just as they agreed. There they built a small hut where she would have to stay during her pregnancy. An extra month would be devoted to wean the infant. The tenth would be spent training to get back in shape. She really only needed a month to be a full-fledged shinobi again. After that, she would have to leave the child with him, the father.

He couldn't believe his ears the first time he heard. He teetered between nausea and ecstasy. He would become a father. _Him! _And yet he felt sorry that she had to be in such difficult situation. And how could he ever manage to take care of a child when he could hardly take care of himself? Yet he was filled with inexplicable joy. He was beaming with a new confidence. He was determined to work hard and raise his child to the best of his abilities. No more art. He will work wherever and do whatever work there was. The future looked bright for him from that point on.

She was careful within those months not to get too close emotionally to her child's father. She decided to be ever more faithful to her husband after this was over. She had another son to take care of and she missed him terribly. Her attention, her love, her life belonged to another. She shut herself off from the man who discreetly took the cue and kept distance.

And then their son was born and her heart melted when she saw him. And it took every ounce of strength in her to fight the urge to take him back to Konoha and dare anyone to lay a finger to harm him. But she knew this was not possible so she just kissed him on the forehead as he lay sleeping bundled in his father's arms. It was time to leave. So she just whispered a promise that she fully intended to keep.

"I'll come back."

**19**

More than a year had passed since she left father and son on that isolated hill outside Konoha. She remembered how her life took a 180-degree turn when she returned after ten months of alleged training.

Her husband treated her differently. He greeted her with a smile when she came home and even shared to her the new things that her then four-year old son had learned while she was away. She returned his smile and ruffled her son's hair fondly as she fawned on his achievements.

A month later, she was pregnant again. She didn't want to be. She had planned to escape a few times and see how her second son was doing but her circumstances prevented her mobility. She placed his hopes on the father and prayed that they were both safe.

And so right then she was carrying her two and half month old son in her arms on the way to the market. *She met a friend on the way who was then expecting her first child. The woman was obviously anxious about giving birth for the first time and she was more than glad to assuage her fears.*

As she walked down the street she passed by that old corner where _he_ used to sit. She could almost see him with his straw mat splayed in front and his drawings clumsily arranged on top. "Art for Sale," the sign said beside him.

And then it rained and the rest of the memories came flooding back as she stood there and gazed at that corner. The apple…the flyswatter…the butterfly…his face…his kind eyes…his embrace…his kiss…And she realized that she loved him. She loved him possibly more than her husband. She loved all of her sons and he missed one so terribly. She longed to see him, both of them. But she couldn't, not yet.

She heard her baby cry then. He was getting wet. "Oh, oh!" she gasped. She got completely lost in her own thoughts. She took out her umbrella and struggled to open it with one hand then raised it over both of them. She locked the stem handle of the umbrella between her cheek and shoulders as she reached for a towel to wipe the baby's face. "I'm sorry, love," she said softly as tears rolled down her cheeks. How long had she been crying, she wondered. She only just noticed but she had a feeling her tears were mixing with the rain earlier.

"Stop it. Stop it now," she ordered herself aloud though if anyone heard they would think she was ordering the baby to stop crying. He eventually did with some coaxing. Only his face got wet. It was fortunate he was wrapped in fairly thick clothing before they went out.

She continued on to her shopping trying to brush away unproductive thoughts. _He'll be two years old soon. I wonder how he's changed. Had his hair gone darker? He had his father's lips, his complexion too._

At that she realized how fortunate she was that _he_ came at the right moment. The baby's features would not have escaped detection even if she claimed he was her husband's. She shook her head realizing she had reverted back to thoughts she had been trying to avoid.

"Five oranges please," she called to the fruit vendor.

**20**

The coughing fit had been bothering him for a while now. He would run outside the hut to keep his son from waking up. He would then return immediately inside to gaze at the baby's sleeping form.

Who knew he would be so blessed. It didn't matter that he had to give up his art. He watched as the little boy's chest rose slightly in and out as he breathed. It was all worth it. His son was his treasure and he would do anything to keep the boy safe. Lumbering was tough work especially for a skinny guy like him, but it paid well and he was determined to hold his own. He had enough drive to lug that heavy lumber around wherever they directed him to.

He stroked his son's hair gently and brushed away a small particle that had invaded his cheek. "You're a descendant of the ancient artist nin clan, did you know?" The child slept on.

"But it's okay if you don't have our ancestors' abilities. It's okay even if you take no interest in art. You're my son. I love you anyway. Whatever you decide to do is fine."

He raised the blanket higher up to the baby's chin and folded it gently beneath his small body. He felt another coughing fit coming on and so he hurriedly went for the door.

He stayed outside a little longer this time. He looked above the starry sky and thought of _her_. He wondered how she was doing. He heard her whisper to their son before she left. _I'll come back_, she said. But it had been over a year and there had been no sign of her.

But it wasn't in him to harbor any resentment. She didn't love him, he knew that much. He expected that much. It was a moment of weakness that led to something he'd hold more precious than his life. And for that he would always be grateful.

He went back to the time she handed him an apple. Was it that time? Or was it when she held the umbrella over him? Or maybe it was when she bought her first picture. He was sure he loved her even before she followed him to the edge of the forest.

But he didn't expect anything of her. He had nothing to offer. He received more from her than he could ever hope for. He wished he could see her again. He wished she'd see their son. But if she decided to stay away forever, he'd understand. He would always get to see her in a way. Their son had his mother's eyes.

**Continued next page**


	5. 21 to 25

**21**

"Papa!" the child hobbled eagerly to greet his father. He just turned two years old and had learned to take his first few steps. The sitter bowed politely after receiving her fee and then quietly headed out.

"What did you do today?" the father asked the boy affectionately.

"Wan!" came the excited reply.

"Wan?" he asked as he took the paper from the boy's hand. His eyes widened as he could distinctly make out the image of a dog drawn with red crayon.

"Wow!" he blurted out in awe. Could it be possible, he asked himself. But then remembering the high hopes placed on him by his parents only to get crushed by his own incompetence, he immediately checked himself. _Whatever he turned out to be is fine. He doesn't need to be a shinobi. He could be just an artist. Anything is fine._

"That is a really good picture!" he said rustling the boy's hair tenderly.

**~元~**

He bolted straight up from his sleep. He felt his chest to check if it was because of his irritating cough. No. It was something else. He turned to his son who was lying motionless beside him. The surroundings were dim. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark while he tried to remember if it was a dream that woke him.

He spotted an old roll of parchment by the corner of the hut. It was the deer painting that she left them. Above it was a small cabinet where he kept his ink and brush. He had also placed a few scrolls inside just for writing. Without thinking, he walked over and took his implements out and a scroll. He unrolled it and started painting.

He stood up and inspected the finished work, his brush still in hand. It was a crow, a black crow staring at him imposingly from the paper. _Why did I draw this,_ he wondered. His chest was pounding hard. A crow signified an omen, a bad omen.

His attention turned to the window and felt something odd was out there, a soft rumbling like a distant thunder but different. The thumping was too even. He ventured out and walked a little further away from the hut. They had been living by the edge of the Land of Fire for two years. Outside its border was a vast desolate land. He would sometimes stare at it and wonder what was beyond.

When he reached that point, he took no time to linger. He ran back to the hut and grabbed his son. Somehow, he took the scroll with him and stuffed the ink and brush inside his pocket. He ran as fast as he could, as far away from there as possible.

**22**

"Papa," his son cried in confusion. The boy was suddenly roused from sleep and was lugged in his father's arms. They were traveling fast, as fast as his father's long thin legs would allow.

"There's something out there, son," he said. "Don't worry, you'll be safe. Papa will protect you."

He didn't know what he saw. He just knew that it was big and it was slowly but most assuredly headed toward Konoha. To him it looked like a giant fox but it had multiple tails. He didn't stay long enough to count how many.

_She's in danger_, he thought. _How can I warn her? I'm too far from the village._

He tried to run faster but he tripped and he clasped his arms protectively around his son as they fell. The scroll tumbled out of his grip. They were by Konoha's wall by then but still quite a distance from the gate.

"Are you okay, does anything hurt," he asked with concern. The boy shook his head but his lips were quivering. He looked like he was about to cry. He hugged the child tightly, assuring him all the while. "It's okay, I'm here."

He coughed hard. _Not now_, he pleaded. He coughed harder. He calculated the distance of the monster behind him and realized he wouldn't make it to her in time at his pace. He was struggling to breathe normally as it was.

His eyes strayed to the scroll that got unrolled when it fell. It revealed the crow that he had painted earlier. He sighed. How he wished then that he was an artist nin like his ancestors that could bring art to life.

"Ninpo chouju giga!" he muttered in remembrance of the jutsu that he tried so hard to activate but failed.

"Ninpo chouju giga," he heard his son mimic while his face was buried in his father's chest. And then it occurred to him to try. _Why not? What do I have to lose?_

He released his son from his embrace and crawled on all fours toward the scroll. "Son," he called. His son hobbled slowly toward him. "Can you do this?" He lifted two fingers together in front of his face. The boy tried to imitate but he still didn't have a firm control of his fingers. He helped form the little hand to the seal formation he wanted. "Now look at the bird and say ninpo chouju giga."

"Ninpo chouju giga," the boy said.

The crow winked and very slowly emerged out of the scroll to his amazement.

"Do you want him to caw son? It would be nice if he could caw, couldn't he?"

The boy nodded excitedly.

"Wish him to caw."

The boy smiled and looked at the crow. And it cawed once.

"Now make him fly son, make him fly over the wall and caw as loud as he can all over town."

The boy jumped with glee as the crow went past the wall cawing at the same time.

He realized he had to work fast. One crow wasn't enough to get attention. He stooped down on his scroll again and painted small crows, as many and as fast as his hands would allow.

"Now son, let's do the same thing, okay? Let's wake everyone up!"

The boy laughed and stretched his hand out so his father could help him form the thing he did earlier with his little fingers.

**23**

An inexplicable phenomenon happened in Konoha that night. A flock of crows went circling over the village making so much noise and waking everyone up.

Sarutobi, who was in charge while the Fourth was away, stared from the Hokage's tower and contemplated on the scene in the sky with foreboding. The crows were warning them of something. He quickly dispatched ANBU to investigate.

Soon enough, the kyuubi was spotted some distance away and it was heading straight to Konoha. An alert was raised and all jounins were ordered to take up their positions.

*Young Itachi stared at the sky as he held his little brother Sasuke.* The crows were still flying over the rooftops. *They were left alone in the house. His mother was promoted to jounin that year so both his parents were called to duty.* "Don't worry Sasuke," Itachi said. "Nii-san will protect you." He kept his eye on the crows above him and witnessed how they suddenly disappeared into thin air.

Outside the gate, a boy was crying. His father wasn't moving at all. They were laughing together earlier. He saw many things from the crows' eyes. They flew over the village and they cawed. People were shouting at them and he thought it funny. And then he turned to his father as he laughed. He then saw that he had his arms planted on the ground. He was panting and coughing. Something was oozing from his mouth. Something dark and he didn't like it because his papa didn't seem to feel well.

The man struggled to lean against the wall outside Konoha's fortress. He wasn't sure if their effort made any difference until he saw dark flashes above them. _Shinobi_, he noted. _They're headed for the monster. Everything will be okay now. She'll be safe._

He coughed again and he realized he wouldn't live through the night. Years of neglect had taken its toll on his body. He feared for his son. Who would take care of him? Then he remembered what the boy did. The artist nin legacy was not dead. It just skipped a generation. And they were just outside a hidden shinobi village, his son's mother's village. He just had to make sure the boy got to her somehow.

He motioned to the child to bring the scroll to him. The boy readily complied without understanding what was going on. His little face had a look of concern for his father. The man tried desperately to raise his hand holding his brush. He needed to write something, a letter introducing the boy. But his strength failed him. He had exerted too much effort first in running and then in making the crows.

He loosened his grip on his brush and waved to the boy to come nearer instead. The boy leaped to him and gave him a tight embrace. He stroked the boy's back gently.

"Son," he started in soft halting speech. "This will be your new home, okay?"

He felt the boy shake his head in protest.

"Don't worry. I'll always be with you. You may not see me, but I'll be with you." He coughed but it came out weaker now.

"They'll probably train you hard in there but you'll do great. I know you will."

He gently pushed the boy away from his chest and looked him straight in the eye. Those eyes, he got to see her again through those eyes.

"Listen to me," he said. "When I was younger, people told me things and I believed them. But now I know that I wasn't so bad. If I got to have you then I wasn't so bad. So when they tell you to do stuff that feel wrong, don't do them. Remember, you can be who you want to be. You make your own decisions, okay? I believe in you."

And he cried then as he embraced his son for one last time. He cried hard because he knew a two-year old would never recall any of those words. He died worrying about what would become of the only treasure he'd ever known.

**24**

"It's coming!" Someone shouted. People scrambled as the kyuubi became visible.

"Hey, hey look!" A shinobi pointed at a dark-haired child leaning beside a man who appeared to be dead. The shinobi approached and poked the boy who in turn opened his eyes in fright.

'He's alive!" the shinobi declared.

"Get him away from there!" His companion ordered.

"Papa! Papa," the child wailed as he was wrestled away from his father.

"He's gone, kid. Sorry."

**~元~**

Konoha's walls were smoldered in fire when the kyuubi attacked. There would be no trace left of the artist who at one time wandered into the village to offer his paintings for sale.

So many incredulous things happened that no one would ever remember about a flock of crows that flew around the village to warn of impending danger. That is, except for a young boy who kept his eyes on the sky while holding his baby brother.

A lot of children lost their parents that day. The orphanage overflowed with children without any other living relatives. One of them was a dark-haired boy with dark eyes and pale skin. His record would show his birthday as November 25th because it was the day he was formally recorded in the orphanage log book, more than a month after Konoha was in flames.

About four years later, he would be taken in by an important man called Shimura Danzo and trained as one of his prized assassins. He was broken but not completely. Despite all the mind-conditioning they made him go through, a time came when he managed to act on his own conscience just as his father wished he would do. If he were alive, he'd be really proud.

As for his mother, she searched desperately for father and son soon after the kyuubi attacked. She had become a jounin after all and she had more freedom to venture out on her own. The hut was no longer there when she arrived. It was part of the kyuubi's trail and the place was leveled beyond recognition.

Part of her heart disappeared that day on that solitary piece of land by the edge of nothing. She wondered if it was the same feeling as being a widow even though she wasn't really a widow yet. She also grieved the loss of a son she only got to hold for a brief period after his birth. In one careful moment, _he_ remarked that the baby had her eyes. She didn't say anything then but she knew it was true. Her eyes were as dark as the baby's. _His_ wasn't so.

Among the hut's ruins, she found a frayed piece of parchment containing what was once part of a beautiful painting of a deer prancing along a meadow under a sparsely cloudy sky. She burned that fragment as if to ceremoniously burn, in a funeral pyre, the remains of a family that never was.

She shed no tears for them as she stood there alone. She left just as quietly as she came. She returned home the next day to her first and only family left. She would devote her time to them from then on. But she would not forget. _Never._

**25**

It had been a difficult existence for her since. After everyone recovered a little from the devastation, her clan was forced to move a little farther away from the main village for some reason. Her clansmen became rather abrasive toward the other people of the village after that.

Her husband too seemed to have reverted back to his old temperamental state. She knew it was because of having been ordered to move. She harbored resentments against the village too. But she also wondered if her husband's disposition was about something else.

While they were packing, sheets of paper with ink drawings slipped from a kitchen drawer she had opened and they fell on the floor. Her husband stared at them from where he stood and then he looked at her. And she saw his eyes change.

Her husband was a smart man. He was head of the clan and things did not slip by him lightly. It was possible he knew. Ten months of training was too long. A young man asking around for her in town just to give back something she'd dropped seemed contrived. And yet her husband at that moment opted not to speak. He just looked at the sheets of art on the floor, and then at her before carrying on with their move. But there was a hidden meaning to his gaze.

Eight years after the kyuubi attacked, the orphaned boy truly became an orphan without his knowledge. The Uchiha massacre occurred. His mother died at the hands of her first born for reasons then unknown. The killer had a trademark jutsu that seemed to have been influenced by crows.

But the boy with his own trademark artist ninjutsu did not care about such trivial matters. He was trained to exist behind the shadows, without identity, without emotion, his origin unknown.

**~end~**

Naruto and Characters © Masashi Kishimoto

* * *

**Notes:** I wrote this in three days. By the time I finished part 23, I had second thoughts about pursuing Sai's connection with Sasuke. I felt the story could probably stand alone without it. There were other twists that seemed sufficient. But I had already built up all the stuff about Mikoto and there was a possibility some would figure out that initial idea from the first paragraph. I had given away too many strong hints so I went on with it. (Decided later to give her identity as a spoiler in the summary)

Oh and just to be clear, I don't believe Sai will ever be revealed as an Uchiha. It was just fun to explore the possibility. Cheers!


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